Camping?

Have I ever been camping? Surely you jest? The big city boy in da woods? Sheesh.

Well, were I grew up there was a vacant lot up the street. It had weeds, a bush or two, and some scrubby trees. When I was about six I thought that was the country. Later on I was introduced to some of Manhattan and the Bronx’s big parks, and they became the wilderness.

Well, sometimes they could be pretty wild.

OK, now let’s talk more real wild…suburban New Jersey and New York State Boy Scout Camps. That’s right, as a young teen, I moved on to the big time. My father even took me to the scouting store to stock up on uniforms and a scout knife. For a few years, I still used old Navy blankets pinned together for a sleeping bag, and the equipment in my pack was mostly rummage from the household.

When I hit the road camping took on a new aspect. Campgrounds, state parks and such offered a refuge from “Da Fuzz.” Being a legit camper was an entree to free meals, offers of rides the next day, meeting interesting people, and a safe haven off the highway.

There could be a ritual to making contacts. Helping people collect or carry firewood was one. Making the acquaintance of pets and kids the other. But the top choice was singing around the campfire.

As the years went by I settled down, and my wife and I had kids. Camping took on a different vibe, But oh, at night around the fire the years could just melt away.